


What a Difference a Few Days Make

by umbrafix



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Episode Related, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 19:13:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5940028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrafix/pseuds/umbrafix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Picking up directly from the end of 3.4, Coda - Morse tries to figure out his future in the midst of a case</p>
            </blockquote>





	What a Difference a Few Days Make

**Author's Note:**

> At the end of Coda, Joan has just left home, and Thursday runs out of the house to try and catch her. He instead finds Morse…
> 
> Well, this became unexpectedly epic and swallowed my life. And what have I learned from writing it? I was not cut out to write murder mysteries! I’ve read this through so many times I can’t stomach doing so again, so I shall post it as it is, flaws and all :)
> 
> I couldn’t work out if they confirmed Morse had actually passed his exam in the show, so here I assume they didn’t officially.
> 
> Warnings: Nothing worse than is usually in the show, but see end notes if you don't mind the plot being spoiled a bit.

It was a cold morning, with Morse already regretting the lack of a coat, but it was the look on DI Thursday’s face which made him feel chilled. Thursday looked as though Joan leaving was one straw too many; as though the world was coming down around his ears. Not sure if he was supposed to follow, Morse started up the path after him towards the house. His heart felt heavy, and every step felt like a mile. In front of him, Thursday’s back was hunched in defeat, his shirt flapping carelessly in the wind, and he paused as though gathering strength before pushing the door fully open.

 

Over his shoulder, Morse saw Mrs Thursday standing in the hall, clutching a piece of paper. She looked up frantically at their entrance, eyes flying with sudden hope to the figure behind her husband. The disappointed shock in her eyes, when she found Morse and not Joan, felt like the keenest reproach she could have thrown at him. The letter, it must have been a note from Joan, fell to the floor unheeded.

 

“I found Morse outside, thought I’d bring him in.” Thursday’s words fell heavily in the silence, the more so for the words he didn’t say about Joan. He moved forwards and gathered his wife into his arms, and they stood holding each other tightly in the dimly lit hallway for a moment. 

 

It felt as though Morse was intruding on an incredibly private moment, and he took half a step back as though to head outside again. Mrs Thursday, who had been staring with wide, unseeing eyes over her husband’s shoulder, glanced up at the movement. She pulled away from her husband, and patted his shoulder. “Come on in, don’t stand in the doorway!” she said to Morse. “I’ll put a brew on, then. I’d just started filling the kettle when…” she trailed off, and tears filled her eyes.

 

“Now then,” said Thursday roughly, but she quickly wiped her face with a handkerchief and turned away.

 

“I could help. With the tea,” offered Morse, unsure of what else to say. Thursday eyed him sharply for a moment then nodded slightly; it was what people needed, sometimes, something to keep them occupied.

 

Mrs Thursday rallied, stuffing the hanky back in a pocket and straightening, all business. “No, I’ll manage. You two go and sit, and I’ll bring it through in a minute.” Morse stooped to pick up the letter on the floor as he walked past. It felt like it was burning his fingertips, but he knew he had no right to read it. He set it on the dining table without daring to glance at it.

 

Thursday lowered himself stiffly into the chair at the head of the table, and stared at his hands on the tablecloth. After hovering uncertainly for a moment, Morse went to one side and drew out a chair to perch on. He couldn’t help but remember other times in this house, and how full of life it had been. Morse had always been on the periphery, just passing through, but he’d soaked up some of the warmth all the same. It seemed so different now, cold and empty, with Joan and Sam both gone. 

 

Seeming suddenly to become aware of his state of undress, Thursday looked down at himself and slowly started doing up his shirt buttons. There was a hollowness about him that Morse had never seen before. Morse felt the opposite of hollow; as though there were too many thoughts and feelings racing through his mind and he couldn’t get a firm hold of any of them. He wasn’t even sure what he’d come here for this morning. After a sleepless night with too many thoughts in his head it had just seemed the only thing he could do – to come here, to see the Thursdays, to see Joan. He had a history of making a fool of himself over women, after all, as Dr Lorimer had been so quick to point out.

 

Mrs Thursday came back in with a tea tray before either of them had spoken, and Morse was startled to realize they had been sitting there in silence for what? Five minutes? When he looked at Thursday, he found the other man watching him.

 

“Did you see her? Did you see our Joan?” Thursday asked in a low, rough voice. Mrs Thursday froze for moment in the act of handing Morse a cup, as though this idea hadn’t previously occurred to her.

 

A wave of heat spread through Morse’s face, and he knew that he was turning red. “Yes,” he said, then had to stop and clear his throat because his voice had come out rusty and hoarse. The cup made a rattling sound as it began to shake against the saucer, and Morse reached out and took it from Mrs Thursday. “I saw her. I tried to talk to her, to stop her from leaving.”  _Stay_. “She wouldn’t – she said she had to go. She wouldn’t tell me where. I’m sorry.” His voice cracked on the last words, and he took a gulp of scalding tea to lessen the threat of his eyes watering.

 

Mrs Thursday sat down as though her strings had been cut, and stared blankly at the tablecloth. Thursday, on the other hand, gripped his cup so hard Morse thought it might break. “You should have brought her back,” said Thursday accusingly. “You should have bloody  _carried_  her back!” Morse stayed silent, his throat feeling tight and untrustworthy. “Damn it!” Thursday’s hand slammed into the table, and tea slopped over the rim of his cup.

 

“That’s enough, Fred, it’s not the lad’s fault,” said Mrs Thursday shakily. She took a sip of her own tea, and seemed to draw strength from it. “And no-one could stop our Joan once she put her mind to something. I’m sure she’ll be back by tonight, once she’s had a think about things.” Morse opened his mouth to tell her that he thought it unlikely, and then shut it again, words unsaid. “I’ll make breakfast. And look at that face of yours! You need some ice on that.” Morse unconsciously raised his fingers to his cheek, and remembered Joan’s smaller ones pressing against it. They were very alike, mother and daughter.

 

Mrs Thursday bustled off to the kitchen, tucking Joan’s letter into her pocket as she went. Morse took another quick gulp of his tea, too sweet, and stood, tugging awkwardly at the bottom of his jumper. “I’ll wait in the car, sir.”

 

Thursday’s eyes jerked away from the doorway his wife had just walked through, and settled on Morse. “Don’t even think about leaving,” he said, and pointed at Morse’s chair. When Morse hesitated, he added sternly, “You’ll sit here and eat breakfast with us, so that I don’t have to watch my wife cry because she made too much for two people!”

 

It was another reminder that the family had been suddenly reduced in number. Of course children grew up and left home, but not like this. Not like this.  _Dad won’t understand_ , Joan had said. Morse didn’t entirely understand either; how she could have left a family that loved her, who needed her.  _Take care of them_. He sat back down.

 

Breakfast was quiet, with no-one speaking beyond ‘pass the butter,’ and ‘this is delicious, Mrs Thursday.’ The clink of knives and forks against crockery filled the room, and Morse tried not to think about how much quieter it would be at the next breakfast, with just the two of them. Mrs Thursday’s gaze was distracted, as though she was planning for when Joan would come back, and Morse didn’t know what to say to her. And Thursday was worse, a storm of anger and grief brewing on his face with nowhere to direct itself. Both of them looked lost.

 

“Right, we’d better be off then, love,” said Thursday eventually. “I’ll give you a call, later. Let me know if there’s any news.”

 

Morse stared, astounded, as Thursday rose from his seat. “You’re coming in to work?” he asked.

 

“Things that need doing,” Thursday said curtly. “Will you be alright, love?” Mrs Thursday smiled weakly up at him –  _denial, hope_  – and nodded.

 

“I’ll go and sit with Helen for a bit-” ‘Our neighbour,’ mouthed Thursday, “-and then give my sister a call.”

 

Morse made his escape to the hall as they exchanged hugs and a kiss, and retrieved the inspector’s hat and coat. He wasn’t really dressed for work himself, but it would have to do.

 

“Now you take care of yourself, and watch that cough. You’ll come for dinner, tonight, won’t you, Morse?” Mrs Thursday asked as they joined him.

 

“I – ah – I’m not sure that I’ll be…” Her eyes were wide and reddened, and perhaps the hope he heard before was somewhat of a front. “Of course,” he amended his answer. “That would be lovely.”

 

And he and Thursday were out of the door, down the path and in the car before he could regret his answer; Thursday’s gruff “What are you waiting for?” spurring him to start the engine.

 

“Sir, I –“

 

“Best be on our way, lad, don’t want to be late.”

 

* * *

 

The station was quiet, still in shock over the shooting of one of their own the day before, and the recent upheaval with Thursdays’ suspension and reinstatement. Morse rather hoped Trewlove had taken the day off; he’d heard she’d been in a bad way the day before after having seen a man shot in front of her. Thursday shut himself in his office, and then it was just him and Strange.

 

There was an envelope waiting on his desk.

 

No one would send mail for him here, not unless it was for… Strange looked over with anticipation as Morse sat down and fingered the envelope, and Morse was glad that Thursday had already gone into his office.

 

Morse hadn’t been thinking, when he applied, that passing his Sergeant’s exam would mean having to leave the station. He’d been waiting to take the thing for so long that it was just the next step, not part of some well thought-out plan. Originally, there had potentially been space for two DS’s at Cowley – him and Jakes, say. But after the budget cuts, and with Strange getting promoted before him, it seemed there would no longer be a place for him here. The unexpectedness of it stung, and he hadn’t had time to adjust to the concept, yet.

 

The only reason he’d stayed on the Force, on more than one occasion, was because of DI Thursday. Because Thursday had talked him into it, stuck with him, brought him back. And for all that Morse felt like he’d been seeing into the more ugly recesses of Thursday’s soul recently, he couldn’t imagine working at another station, with another DI. ‘ _Everything has its season_ ,’ Thursday had said to him though – yesterday, no, the day before.

 

“Well, go on then,” said Strange impatiently as Morse tapped the letter against the desk.

 

“What?” Morse looked up to see Strange had come over, leaning against the next desk and watching him eagerly. He and Strange hadn’t quite settled into a new balance yet; the DS was happy to order him about but still trying too hard to be chums at the same time. Now, Morse supposed things would change again, although he wouldn’t be around long enough for it to matter. “Oh, yes.”

 

He opened the envelope. The rustling of the paper unfolding seemed louder than it should have. His eyes scanned down past the pleasantries; caught on words like ‘congratulate you’ and ‘outstanding’ and ‘pass.’

 

“I said there wasn’t much to it,” he said, slightly numb.

 

Strange made a pleased noise, and clapped him on the back. “Well done, Matey!” he said, and reached to take the letter from him. Morse’s fingers closed too late around empty air, and his moment of distraction was long enough for Strange to make it halfway to Thursday’s office before Morse jolted and moved after him.

 

“Strange –“

 

“Sir,” said Strange brightly after the briefest of knocks. “Morse has passed his Sergeant’s!”

 

Morse came to a halt behind him in the doorway, and closed his eyes for a second in defeat. When he opened them, Thursday was staring at the two of them, his face unreadable.

 

“Has he?” said Thursday finally, voice carefully neutral. Morse’s heart lurched a little in his chest. “Let me see then.”

 

The letter was duly passed over, and Morse could move further into the office and tug the door shut behind him. He noticed that Joan’s picture wasn’t in its usual place; it was lying in the centre of the desk, instead.

 

Thursday perused the piece of paper, lips moving slightly as he read. “Well. Congratulations, Detective Sergeant Morse,” Thursday said flatly. Morse wanted be able to smile, but he felt as though his face was stuck on a shell-shocked stare. “Take this along to the Chief Superintendent, and he’ll get you sorted.”

 

Morse crossed to the desk, and reached out for the letter. Thursday didn’t let go for a moment, and the two of them stood there in a tableau that grew more pained every second.

 

“Thank you, sir,” Morse said, awkwardly, and Thursday finally dropped his gaze, sitting back heavily and waving them away.

 

Morse heard Thursday start to cough as he closed the office door behind him, and each gasp for breath was like a stab to the heart. He’d long suspected that Thursday wasn’t quite right, especially since he’d asked him to hide his state of health from Mrs Thursday, and now that Sam and Joan were gone…

 

Strange left him at his desk with another clap on the back, which nearly knocked Morse over, and Morse went alone to knock on Bright’s door. Better to get this over with; he wasn’t entirely sure what his reception would be.

 

Bright seemed happy enough for him though, and proud. Everything Morse secretly and guiltily wished that Thursday might have been instead.

 

“Well!” Bright said, upon being shown the letter. “Never in any doubt, eh, according to Inspector Thursday? I’ve been putting out feelers. There’s a position coming up in North London or one open in Sheffield if you’re willing to go further afield. Though perhaps you’d prefer that one, to be closer to your family? We’re obviously happy to keep you on for a few weeks while you interview for posts and the transfer is arranged.”

 

Morse nodded. “Thank you, sir.” He tried to imagine what it would be like in another station; full of strangers that he would have to get used to, and that would have to get used to him. The thought left him cold. “I appreciate your help.”

 

“You’ve done us proud, Morse. We’ll see you right. We’re very sorry to see you go, of course; you’ve done fine work here, and you’ll be missed.” Bright seemed a little emotional, at the last, and Morse gave him a slight smile. His perspective of the superintendent had changed so much over the past couple of years; it meant something now, to have there be genuine respect between them.

 

Walking back to his desk had a surreal feeling to it. He wouldn’t be here much longer. Soon, this wouldn’t be his desk. He’d be assigned somewhere new, to a DI who would undoubtedly think Morse was too mouthy and who wouldn’t listen to his ideas. It still felt like an uphill struggle here, sometimes.

 

Maybe he should consider picking up his degree again, after all? Or do something else entirely? Except that he was good at being a detective, and it had been so long since he had had confidence that he was good at something. What had Lorimer said? Miserable? Pitiable? How long would he have stayed like that, if not for that first case with DI Thursday? It meant something, to Morse, to feel like he was making a difference.

 

The door to Thursday’s office opened, and Morse’s head snapped up. He didn’t look Morse’s way though, but gestured at Strange. “Time to question Dr Lorimer and his wife.” Morse tried not to let himself feel the exclusion. Thursday had suggested he take the exam, after all; had said he’d help him write his application. He had no excuse to be disapproving now, whatever the state of things between them.

 

Strange gathered his things, glancing at Morse a couple of times, and finally said, “Morse. The phone.” He pointed at the phone, which must have been ringing while Morse was wool-gathering, and then headed out.

 

It was paperwork all morning; Morse had to file a witness report of the events in the bank, as well as his normal work on the Clissold murder. He struggled to convert the visceral events in his memory into dry, concise sentences. ‘Peter and Cole Matthews threated an officer, and civilians, with a gun. Cole Matthews shot bank worker Ronnie Gidderton in the abdomen. Despite pressure to the wound, Mr Gidderton died some minutes later.’

 

The words didn’t describe the warmth of the blood which Morse could still feel seeping into the knees of his trousers. Or the smell.

 

Morse had to step outside for a moment and get a breath of fresh air half way through.

 

At around eleven he rang the Thursday house, with some notion of checking up on Thursday’s wife. The tone rang and rang, and he twisted the cord around his fingers with anxiety, but no-one picked up. She must have still been at the neighbour’s house. Morse was guiltily relieved.

 

Thursday and Strange returned maybe half an hour after that, and, after coming to check on his progress, Strange went and knocked on Bright’s door.

 

“Pub for lunch?” Morse looked up to find Thursday standing by his desk with a conciliatory expression. “Win didn’t have time to make me any sandwiches.” Morse gave a small nod in answer, and straightened the files on his desk. He grabbed a discarded copy of the paper from someone else’s desk on the way.

 

The pub felt normal, familiar. Like this was any other day, and Morse and Joan hadn’t been held at gunpoint yesterday, and Thursday hadn’t almost killed a man in front of them, and Joan hadn’t left home and Morse hadn’t just officially passed his Sergeant’s. The only difference was Thursday having a Ploughman’s rather than his usual sandwich, and insisting that Morse had one too; Morse didn’t normally eat lunch, and he was trying not to spend money in the wake of his meeting at the bank, but it would have felt churlish to refuse.

 

The silence between them was easy enough, and Morse dug out a pen to do his crossword.

 

“What else did she say?” asked Thursday as he finished his sandwich, just as Morse thought he wasn’t going to mention it.

 

“I told you everything this morning.” Thursday didn’t look satisfied, so Morse cast his mind back to the morning; to the fog, the green coat that she’d been wearing, and the weary expression in her eyes. “Not much. That she had to go, that she couldn’t stay. That she didn’t know where she was going. She was worried about both of you.”

 

“And she wouldn’t stay?” Thursday asked softly, rhetorically. Morse shook his head, hair flopping in front of his eyes, and he didn’t know what showed on his face but Thursday said, “Oh, don’t look like that, lad, I know you did all you could.” Morse gave a tight half smile of acknowledgement, but it felt more like a grimace.

 

Back at the station, the afternoon seemed endless, and as the hours dragged by Morse felt his eyelids starting to droop of their own accord. A call came in about a mugging, and he sent off Trewlove to deal with it. She’d come in after all, and he thought she could use an easy case after the last one.

 

The letters on the forms he had to fill out began to dance on the paper, and he squinted at them and rubbed at his eyes.

 

“You look half-dead,” came DI Thursday’s voice from beside him. Morse startled before he could stop himself, then shuffled his papers and cleared his throat to try and cover for it. They’d existed in separate bubbles all afternoon, him, Thursday, and Strange, and he’d half-forgotten anyone else was even there. “Were you up all night?”

 

“Thinking about the case,” Morse said, which wasn’t exactly a lie. “But I’m fine, sir.”

 

“Course you are,” said Thursday dryly. “You’re always fine.” Morse tilted his head in query, but the DI shook his head. “It’s half-past five, and I told Win I’d be back for dinner at six.” It took Morse a moment to process this, to go from ‘I should have tried to call again,’ to ‘I said I’d go for dinner.’

 

“Of course, sir, I’ll drive you.”

 

“Hmm,” said Thursday, and when they got to the car, he took the keys. “I don’t trust you when you’re sleep-deprived, Morse.”

 

The house was quiet as they pulled up outside, with lights shining from a couple of the downstairs windows. It looked normal, as though nothing had changed in the last week. As Thursday switched off the engine, Morse hesitantly said, “I can take the car back now, sir. There’s still plenty to do at the station, and I don’t want to intrude.”

 

Thursday didn’t reply immediately, but pulled his pipe out of his pocket and lit it, taking a few puffs. Morse eyed it, but said nothing. Thursday indicated the window with the stem of his pipe, and Morse saw a net curtain fall back into place.

 

“She’s not back. My Win would have been out here with a parade two minutes ago if Joan had turned up in the last half an hour, and if it had been earlier than that she’d have rung. She’ll have cooked for four though.” Thursday took a few more puffs of his pipe. “Not because she really believed Joan’d be back tonight, but because Win couldn’t bear the thought that she might turn up and not have a proper welcome.” Morse nodded uncertainly, and Thursday snuffed out his pipe before opening the car door. “You won’t be intruding, Morse, now come on.”

 

Dinner was a strange echo of a meal, with Mrs Thursday frequently turning to include someone in the conversation who wasn’t there. As Thursday had suggested, there was far too much food. Morse wasn’t even hungry, but he gamely said yes to seconds when Mrs Thursday asked, and pushed them half-heartedly around on his plate.  After she mentioned talking to her sister, Morse asked Mrs Thursday about her family, and where she’d grown up, and what she liked best about Oxford. Nonetheless, her glance flew to the doorway at every small sound from outside, and once or twice she half rose from her seat with the intention of checking before Thursday told her, “It was nothing, love.”

 

“But she was alright, wasn’t she?” she finally burst out as they ate sponge pudding with custard. “When you saw her this morning? She was alright?”

 

Morse looked up to find Thursday’s eyes fixed on him just as keenly, and swallowed. “Yes, Mrs Thursday. She upset, I think, about what happened at the bank, but she was fine otherwise. Maybe she just needs to think it through. I told her to just give it some time, but…”

 

“A change of scenery,” said Thursday decisively. “Might do her good, after the shock she had.” Morse tried not to let his surprise show; it wasn’t as though the inspector had been particularly reasonable about this himself. Morse guessed he was trying for his wife’s sake.

 

“But she’s never really been away from home – not properly. And you said she didn’t know where she was going!” This directed at Morse.

 

“She’s a clever girl, and she’s got plenty of common sense. I’m sure she had a plan, and just didn’t want to tell me,” said Morse, who was sure of no such thing. Joan had seemed shaken, this morning, and unsure of herself; not characteristics he’d ever associated with her in the past. He was, however, hoping she had enough of that sense to come home again if she found herself without somewhere to stay or a friendly face.

 

Thursday and Morse were sent to the sitting room with a glass of brandy while Mrs Thursday cleared the table. “Used to be Sam’s job,” Thursday said quietly, after she refused Morse’s help.

 

“You’re a guest, dear, you go and sit down. And don’t even think about smoking that pipe of yours, Fred!” Thursday rolled his eyes at Morse, but gave her a kiss on the cheek before leaving the room.

 

“You don’t mind if I-“ Thursday pointed at the newspaper on the coffee table, and Morse shook his head. “Didn’t get a chance, earlier. Hell of a day.” Morse gave a bleak huff of agreement.

 

He’d lost track of exactly where yesterday blended into today, and the weight of all the things that had happened pressed upon him. He’d found himself, more than once during the day, rubbing at the knees of his trousers as though to wipe the blood off, even though he was wearing a clean pair. He was doing it again now. Pulling his hand away, he ran it through his hair and leaned his head back against the couch with a long exhale of breath. He wished he could stop thinking about it, blank it out of his brain. To think of something else instead, like how warm it was here, or which articles Thursday was reading by how long it was between the rustle of the pages turning. He spent longer on anything to do with crime in the city, Morse thought fuzzily, or sports.

 

Morse blearily opened his eyes sometime later to Thursday’s hand on his shoulder. “Up you get, lad, it’s late.” He stifled a yawn and swiped a hand across his eyes.

 

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep. What time is it?” Morse stretched as he got to his feet, somehow feeling more tired than before he’d dozed off. Thursday shepherded him out into the hall, and then blocked his progress towards the hallstand. Feeling a bit thick, Morse stopped and stared wordlessly at him.

 

“I’m not sending you home at this hour, Morse, especially not with you about to fall over,” Thursday said firmly. “Win turned Sam’s bed down for you before she went to sleep; you’ll stay here tonight.”

 

And admittedly, Morse wasn’t sure he could drive without falling asleep at the wheel right now, but he could  _walk_. “I’m alright, sir,” he said stupidly. “I can make it home.”

 

Thursday assessed him for a moment, in the same way that he might have looked over a crime scene.  “No, you can’t,” he said bluntly, and Morse felt a sudden flash of temper. He was tired of taking orders from Thursday. For most of the day, all Morse had been thinking of was getting home and putting on a record; of letting everything go and losing himself in his music. It had been the only thing keeping him going at several points, and to be denied it now felt petty and cruel.

 

“I’ll be  _fine_. I won’t take the car. It’s only a couple of miles, and-“

 

“A couple of miles? More than that! It’s past midnight, and you don’t even have a coat.” Morse huffed and started forward, intending to brush by him, but Thursday blocked him bodily. He looked up and caught the DI’s eyes with a glare that would have been fiercer if he’d been less tired. After a moment Thursday’s look softened, and he put his hands on Morse’s shoulders. Morse flinched backwards, trying to shrug them off; he felt ill equipped to deal with this right now. Thursday moved with him though, and Morse stilled, feeling vaguely ridiculous.

 

“I could get a cab,” Morse said stubbornly, but with less conviction.

 

"Aye, lad, I don’t doubt you could. But since we’ve a bed here and Win’s already made it up for you, you might as well use it.”

 

Morse blinked again, and he must have been more tired than he thought because the next thing he knew he was being steered towards the staircase and fumbling up it. “Here you are then, bathroom’s just down the hall,” Thursday said as Morse opened his mouth to protest again. “I’ve laid out something for you to sleep in. See you in the morning, Morse.” He shut the door quietly behind him, and Morse was left alone in a room lit dimly by the lamp on the nightstand. 

 

It was obviously a boy’s room – model airplanes and photos of footballers everywhere. Morse’s eyes traced tiredly over the details, but didn’t take them in. He undressed and changed into the pyjamas on the bed without any recollection of doing so, only coming back to himself as he tied the waist string tightly to stop the bottoms falling off him completely. The nightclothes hung off his frame, but he supposed Sam’s would have been too small. It felt strange, wearing his DI’s pyjamas; they’d been carefully ironed and smelled of a different laundry detergent than he was used to. The bed was strange too; Morse had never been one for bed hopping and always felt uncomfortable trying to sleep in a new place. Tonight that faded in the face of his sheer exhaustion, and he slept deeply.

 

* * *

 

“Here, I’ll bring these up for you,” Thursday said, hefting the large bowl of leftovers Morse had been sent home with.  They trudged down the stairs to Morse’s basement flat, Morse becoming more aware by the moment that he’d probably left it in a proper state. It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d worry about, or even notice, usually, but he felt suddenly self-conscious in the wake of the Thursday’s hospitality.

 

He unlocked the flat door and opened it cautiously, stopping halfway through to glance back at Thursday. “It’s a bit messy. Why don’t you just give that to me, and -“

 

“I’m used to a pair of teenagers in the house, lad, and I’ve been here before for that matter!” said Thursday, and chivvied him forwards. Morse hurriedly scooped up some clean clothes as Thursday headed for the small kitchen.

 

“I’ll just be a minute,” he said, and went into the bathroom to change.

 

When he came back out, Thursday was sitting at the small, round, table. Morse followed the direction of his gaze to an open letter sitting on the table in front of him. There were papers scattered in various places around the flat, but Morse’s stomach clenched with cold certainty that this was the recent letter from the bank. A wave of embarrassment and anger crashed through him. “Sorry, lad, I just -“ Thursday started.

 

“That’s not your concern,” Morse snapped, striding forward, and snatched the letter from the table top. He crumpled it to a ball in his hand, and the words ‘overdrawn,’ ‘for the fourth month in a row,’ and ‘serious financial concern,’ flashed across his mind. And  _turf accountant_ , it had said that too. Shame made his ears burn scarlet. He didn’t know how much his DI had seen.

 

This time Thursday straightened, and snapped back. “Not my concern? Know what you’re doing about this as well then, I suppose?”

 

“I can take care of myself.” Morse raised a hand to fist in his hair, and backed up two paces; the wall came up solid and unyielding behind him. He felt exposed, and ashamed; he hated Thursday knowing he was in difficulty.

 

Thursday raised his hands in front of him in the gesture for peace. “Look, if you need help, or just to talk things through-“

 

And the word  _help_  ignited his ire all over again. “I don’t need you to stick your nose in my business,” Morse said icily. “This won’t affect my job – I’ve been looking for another place, somewhere smaller.” Thursday looked around the dingy one room flat scathingly, and raised an eyebrow at Morse. Morse held his gaze, hands still fisted in impotent anger.

 

“I suppose you won’t need to anymore, since you’ll be moving. And not on a DC’s pay anymore,” Thursday said flatly. The words took a moment to sink in; Morse hadn’t really had time to think about the salary increase. Or that he’d have to look for a new flat anyway, regardless of money troubles, if he was moving across the country.

 

“I suppose so,” he said, trying to sound confident, and tried not to think of the money he already owed, the even greater sum he’d promised to send to his sister this month to help support the family, and the cost of putting down a new deposit somewhere. For the moment Morse put it all on hold in his head, and gestured towards the door. “Shall we go?”

 

His anger gradually unwound on the drive. He’d overreacted; Morse knew that. Thursday hadn’t meant to pry into his private matters; he could barely have avoided looking at the letter when he sat down, nor had he meant anything but genuine concern. The apology stuck in Morse’s throat though, and he didn’t raise the subject again.

 

At the station things were quiet until nine thirty, and another phone call.  “Detective Constable Morse speaking.” It only occurred to him afterwards that he should have said Sergeant. He listened to the report, and then went and knocked on Thursday’s door.

 

“Sir. A body’s been found. Looks like a shooting apparently, down by the river. A couple of PC’s are already there.”

 

“Right then.” Thursday was all confident motion as he collected his coat and hat, and swept out the door, no hint of the coughing fit that Morse had heard early this morning. There was also no acknowledgment of the tension from Morse’s flat, which Morse was grateful for.

 

* * *

 

It was a bright, clear day, and Morse would have enjoyed the drive if he wasn’t worrying so much about, well, everything. As it was, the scenery spun away before him in a blur, and Thursday even had to remind him to turn once as his mind spun itself in circles over the uncertainty of his future. London or Sheffield? Or neither, and do something else? Where could he borrow money from? Was Joan alright? Was Thursday?

 

They knew they were in the right place when they saw the constable waiting by the roadside next to another two vehicles, and Morse pulled over on the side of the road. He paused for a moment, hands still on the wheel. He felt a cold, uncomfortable, certainty that this would be his last investigation in Oxford. Bright had said to stop by his office again, presumably to discuss his options further. For all Morse knew, next week he might have moved far from Oxford, and all of its familiar sights and sounds. He hadn’t realised he’d gotten so attached to it again, that it had become associated with a new set of memories.

 

“Come on then,” said Thursday, getting out of the car, and Morse blinked his thoughts away. The constable had been walking slowly in their direction; now he joined them and informed them that he was waiting up here with the students who had found the body, and that Dr DeBryn was already on the scene. “We’ll deal with this lot after, then.” The constable nodded, and went back to one of the other cars, where Morse could now make out people sitting in the back seat.

 

There were a few figures gathered down by the river in the distance, and Morse and Thursday set off in their direction. The two of them headed down the bank, careful of the wet, muddy ground from the rain the night before. Morse caught Thursday glance down at his shoes and grimace, and wondered how often Mrs Thursday complained about the state of his clothes after he’d been at a crime scene.

 

Looking off to the side had been a mistake; Morse skidded on the wet grass, and was barely saved from an undignified spill in the mud when Thursday’s hand whipped out to grab his elbow. The hand lingered for a second after he caught his balance, though Thursday had already looked away.

 

As they got nearer to the river, they made out a couple of PCs and a familiar shape hunched over the body.

 

“Good morning, gentlemen,” DeBryn greeted them as they came into range.  Morse and Thursday nodded. “We have here a Martin Rushford, who has been shot four times at close range. He otherwise appears healthy, so at this point I would have to say cause of death was due to massive blood loss and damage to internal organs due to the shooting. I’d estimate time of death at approximately 11-12 hours ago.” This was all delivered in DeBryn’s usual, efficient style. 

 

Morse forced his eyes to look at the body. There was a lot of blood. He felt pinpricks of sweat break out on his forehead, and his stomach felt like it was made of lead. Breathe in, he told himself, and breathe out.  And  _look_.

 

The body was that of a man in his late forties, perhaps. He was dressed smartly – black tie. “Odd choice of clothing for a walk by the river, sir. The body might have been moved, or the victim might have been lured here?”

 

“The amount of blood on the ground is consistent with the victim being killed here,” DeBryn confirmed. Morse had been trying not to focus on the dark red, muddy puddle around the victim, but his eyes flicked to it now. He swallowed hard, and looked away again.

 

“Hmm,” Thursday said, assessing the scene. “Your time of death puts the shooting between around ten and eleven last night, Doctor. We’re close enough that you can see the spot from the road, but it would have been dark. Secret assignation, maybe? Bit isolated.”

 

“And no convenient surfaces,” put in Morse unthinkingly. Thursday gave him a look.

 

“One other point – my initial examination suggests at least one of the shots came from behind, while the others were from the front. I won’t know more until I get him on my table. And I can’t guarantee you’ll have the results of the autopsy today, gentlemen, as I’ve got a busy day. I’ll ring as soon as I have news.”

 

“Doctor.” Thursday nodded at DeBryn, and the pathologist packed his bag and headed back up to his car. “Two shooters, perhaps?” the DI mused aloud to Morse. “And him caught between them?”

 

Morse had been slowly looking over the body, and now he stepped forwards. “What’s that, sir?” He crouched to one side of the body, making sure to keep his shoes out of the blood, and indicated the man’s jacket pocket. There was a corner of something white protruding. “It’s an envelope” said Morse as he drew it out. It was that odd texture paper went when it had got wet and then started to dry out again. A bullet had gone through the middle of it, and there was a large circle of blood around the hole. With Thursday watching on, Morse carefully opened it and checked inside. “An empty one.”

 

“No address?”

 

“Not that I can see. Though it might have been washed away in the rain. No stamp though, so it hasn’t been posted. Maybe it was just being used to carry something else?”

 

“Where’s that identification?” Morse handed over the wallet DeBryn had given him. It was thankfully unscathed. “Martin Rushford. I feel like I’ve heard that name before. Morse, go and get started with the witnesses, will you.”

 

There were three of them; students out for an early morning run. The PC handed over his notepad, and Morse glanced over the information quickly. They’d set off around 8 o’ clock, and found the body maybe half an hour later. One of them had gone for help. None of them recognised the victim.

 

“J. Thomas, C. Radley and N. Fitzwilliam?”

 

“Yes,” said one of the lads. Dusty brown hair and a good-natured face. “I’m Neil. That’s Jack, and this is Cathy.” Morse nodded to them.

 

“Catherine,” she corrected. She was short and wiry, with a shock of bright red hair which she kept twisting around her finger. Jack was more heavyset, worried-looking, and wore glasses. All three wore light running gear, and were shivering slightly, though Jack at least had a jacket.

 

“Alright, could you tell me how you found the body?”

 

“But we’re already-“ started one of them, Jack, but Catherine shushed him.

 

“It’s just procedure,” Morse said calmly. “The PC took the basics down, but I might have further questions.”

 

“We go running every day,” volunteered Neil. “Well, Cathy and I go running every day. Jack started coming with us whenever we can talk him into it.” The others nodded in tandem.

 

“Do you always run along the same route?”

 

“No,” said Neil.

 

“But usually along the same two or three,” added Catherine.

 

Jack shrugged. “It all looks the same to me, I’m far too busy staring at my feet. Though why we had to go out when it’s so muddy today…”

 

“And the body?”

 

“Oh, it was off to the side of the path.” Neil was clearly the spokesperson for the group. “We didn’t realize what it was, at first. And well, we went over, thought they might need help.”

 

“God, it was awful,” said Catherine, and shuddered.

 

“But then we could see- I mean, he was...” Neil went quiet for a moment, and Catherine laid a hand on his arm. “So Jack went for help, and Cathy and I went back to wait on the path so he could find us again.”

 

“Did any of you touch the body?” They shook their heads, the red haired girl a second behind the others. “Are you sure? Even by accident?” Firmer nods all round. “How far did you have to go, Mr Thomas?” Morse asked Jack.

 

“I’m not sure? It was probably only a mile. I’m not sure how far out we were; it was on the way back…”

 

“Why you? Out of the three of you, it would have probably taken you the longest time to get help.”

 

Jack blushed at the mention of his weight. “He was freaking out,” Catherine said quietly. She’d started chewing on the ends of her hair, and Morse scarcely kept his nose from wrinkling in distaste.

 

He made a couple of notes. “Did you see anyone else on your way, or near the body?” They all shook their heads. “Did you notice anything unusual at all?” They shook their heads again.

  

“Well, thank you all for your help. We may need to be in touch with follow up questions, and if you remember anything else then please contact the station.”

 

Morse turned to find that, at some point during the interview, Thursday had come up to stand slightly behind him. They moved off towards the Jaguar in tandem. “Anything?”

 

“Nothing obvious, sir. This wasn’t an unusual choice of route for them. Two stayed with the body while the other went for help. And they didn’t see anything or anyone.”

 

“Not surprising, I suppose. You’d hardly expect whoever did it to stick around. The rain will have washed away most of the evidence, which is a bugger, but they’ll bring what there is back to the lab. Let’s go see who our vic is, shall we?”

 

* * *

 

Martin Rushford turned out to be an exceedingly wealthy man, who was on a number of important boards and knew a great deal of important people. Thursday had read about him in the papers recently – something about a large charitable donation to a local school. Morse quickly tuned out Bright’s explanation of why they should give more weight to this investigation due to the eminence of the person (and the person’s connections) involved. Thursday, standing beside him, nudged him sharply in the side on seeing his gaze drift off.

 

“Of course, we’ll give it our full attention, sir,” said Thursday.

 

“Yes,” said Bright, considering. “Yes. A delicate matter…” And he went back to his office.

 

“Let’s see what the family are like, then.”

 

* * *

 

“Bright said you spoke on my behalf, in the investigation,” Thursday said, apropos of nothing, when they were about halfway to the family estate. Morse gripped the wheel a little tighter, and kept his eyes on the road. This ranked fairly highly in the list of conversations he never wanted to have with his DI, and he seemed to have managed to cover several of those already in the last few days.

 

Morse still wasn’t entirely sure that he’d done the right thing. Inspector Thursday had been going off the rails of late, and if Morse had helped him keep his position just so that he could beat up another informant, so that he could mete out his own version of justice… But when he’d been in the room with the two slick men from the complaints office, both of them making sly insinuations about Thursday’s work and habits, he couldn’t get his mouth to say the words. Some part of his heart and mind kept insisting that Thursday was a good man, regardless of what knew had happened. Thursday had trusted him before, when no-one else would listen to him. Morse didn’t owe him his silence, and he wouldn’t stand by while Thursday broke the law, but he did owe him his loyalty.

 

Morse hadn’t lied in the investigation. He’d said that he hadn’t _seen_ Thursday hit the man. That Thursday was a good DI. He didn’t feel right about it, though. It had  _felt_  like lying.

 

“I didn’t think you would,” added Thursday after a minute.

 

Morse remembered throwing the car keys at the DI after being told that he’d have to be willing to play dirty if he wanted to stay Thursday’s bagman. The thought of that moment still stung; that, after everything that had happened in his time at Cowley, he could still be dismissed so easily. That Thursday would try to manipulate him, get him to go along with it. And even those things didn’t hurt half as much as the thought that Inspector Thursday, whom he served with for years now, would cross the line so easily. Would have killed an unarmed man in front of his daughter, if Bright hadn’t shown up. 

 

Finally he decided it was better to know than to wonder. “Do you still think that, what you said back then?” Morse asked. “That that’s who you are, and that the end justifies the means?”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thursday give him a sober look, and rake a hand through his hair. “Sometimes it does, lad. You’ve never really seen that side of coppering, I’ve kept you from it.” Morse started to object automatically, and then remembered other times in the past Thursday had asked him to stay in the car. “And for all Mr Bright has to say the words, he knows it too. Maybe it oughtn’t justify the means. And maybe this time-“ Thursday broke off, and seemed to hover on the edge of disclosing something to Morse. He took a breath as if to start speaking, but it turned into a long, wracking cough instead. Morse’s chest ached in sympathy, and Thursday took a minute to recover. “I was sorry, to put you in that position,” Thursday offered finally. “And about the other thing too – you were right, that wasn’t me. I was scared, about our Joan. I wanted to protect her.”

 

“You did that,” Morse said. “You kept her safe.”

 

“You too.” Thursday darted another glance at him. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

 

Morse gave the slightest nod; that conversation had been uncomfortable enough the first time round, and he had no wish to repeat it. He was ill at ease with Thursday trying to thank him for something which Morse had done instinctively, which was part of his job, even, and especially when it was for someone he cared about. Of course he’d have taken a bullet for Joan. Of course he’d been scared silly about it.

 

Perhaps it would be better, after all, to leave and start afresh. To not have the history, and the betrayals. How would he and Thursday carry on, if they continued working together? With all of these pauses in their conversation; debts, caution and bitterness weighing them down?

 

* * *

 

The victim’s family consisted of the wife – Mary Rushford – and two children, Julia and David. Julia was at school when they arrived, and David was described as ‘visiting’ that morning, implying he no longer lived at home. Morse thought he had the look of an undergraduate about him.

 

“I’m Detective Inspector Thursday, and this is Detective Constable Morse.” Morse smiled tightly at the family, who seem bemused by their visit, and didn’t correct his title. “I’m afraid to have to tell you, Madam, that we found a body by the river this morning. We believe it may be your husband, Martin Rushford.”

 

“Martin?” said the woman, shocked, and swayed slightly. Morse lurched belatedly in her direction, but luckily the son was nearer, and put his arm around her in support. She seemed to recover herself after a moment, waving their hovering away.

  

She didn’t look like she was the fainting sort. In fact, Morse’s first impression of her had been that of a well-bred ox wearing a blond wig and a string of pearls. David, who was rather a beanpole in comparison, sat her on the nearest sofa, and Thursday and Morse followed suit.

  

“You said father…”

 

“Ahem. Yes.” Thursday paused, and eyed Mrs Rushford warily. “We found this wallet, with his identification in it. Could you confirm that it’s his?” He passed it to her, and she and David nodded. “I’m very sorry to have to tell you that Mr Rushford was shot.”

 

“Shot?” Mrs Rushford’s hand flew to her mouth, and she gave a choked sob. David tightened his arm around her, and pulled her against his shoulder. His face didn’t show much at all though. He was either the very definition of stoic, or he wasn’t too distressed that his father was dead. “But why would anyone shoot my husband?”

 

“Were you aware of anyone that bore him ill-will, or that might have a grudge against him?” Morse asked.

 

Mrs Rushford appeared too overcome to speak, so after a moment David cleared his throat. “I don’t really know,” he said awkwardly. “He would never mention that sort of thing to us. Said he had enough of talking politics and business with the people at the club.”

 

“Which club would that be?”

 

“I can’t remember, he always just called it the club. Something to do with the zodiac I think. Mummy?”

 

“Aries. The Aries club,” she said weakly. Morse made a note of it.

 

“Yes, that was it. He was there most days.” There was thinly veiled disapproval in David’s voice.

 

“Thank you. Do any of you know where Mr Rushford was last night?”

 

“He came to my concert, at the college.” David said. Thursday inquired which one. “Chaucer. He hadn’t thought he’d be able to make it, but he changed his mind yesterday. He left before the end, though, I didn’t see him afterwards.”

 

“And what time was that?”

 

“It started at 8:30. I’m not sure exactly what time we finished, but a little past ten I think.” Which explained the man’s outfit, if he’d gone straight from the concert. Chaucer was near enough to their crime scene that he might have walked, or he could have caught a cab along the road. They’d have to interview people around the college, and check with the cab drivers, to see if anyone had seen him.

 

They asked a few more questions about the family and Mr Rushford’s life, and Thursday asked if they could have a look through his study for anything that might help.

 

“Yes, of course,” said Mrs Rushford, reviving a little. “Though if you could please tell me if you move anything. Martin was so particular about the way he kept his things…” A new wave of tears threatened, and Morse and Thursday stood.

 

“I’ll show you,” David offered.

 

“Thank you. Would you be able to accompany us afterwards, in order to make a formal identification?”

 

“Yes, yes of course, I’ll come,” said David.

 

The study was meticulously kept; Morse could see what Mrs Rushford had meant about her husband being particular. If things were arranged according to a system though, Morse couldn’t work out what it was. He browsed the books on the shelves while David looked around for a long moment, and then he left them to it.

 

Most of the papers arranged on the desk and in folders in the cabinets seemed to be related to business dealings, board meetings or charitable foundations. There was, however, a note on the pad on his desk, with a date – yesterday’s – 10pm, and a map reference. In his top desk drawer there was an Ordnance Survey map of Oxford folded open and with small mark drawn on it at that location.

 

“Near to the river,” said Morse, “but not where we found him. Closer to David’s college.”

 

Also in the drawers, among various articles of stationary, were envelopes that looked identical to the one that they had found on the body.

 

The wastepaper basket contained mainly official correspondence, nothing interesting, but there was one, empty, envelope addressed by hand. It could have been to a Mr Rushford, but the ink had been smudged and it was difficult to be sure.

 

“Nothing else particularly helpful then,” said Thursday on completing his circuit of the room. “The note’s promising though – the right time and date. Who was he meeting, I wonder?”

 

* * *

 

David identified the body at the hospital, seeming shaken for the first time since they’d met him. Afterwards, he groped blindly for a chair in the hallway and sat as though he couldn’t have stood upright for a moment longer. “It doesn’t seem like it’s him. I mean, he looks so different. Not himself.”

 

Morse nodded, sitting beside him and gazing across at the opposite wall. He’d felt the same way when his own father had died – somehow there’d been something different about the body, something  _wrong_. “What was he like, your father?”

 

David stared down at his hands for a long moment before processing he’d been asked a question. “Oh. Everyone always said he was a good man. He was strict, I suppose. Everything had to be just so. He wasn’t home much. And he was very-“ His lips tightened, and Morse saw a glimmer of tears in his eyes.

 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Morse said, but he wasn’t sure if David heard him.

 

Thursday was smoking his pipe outside when Morse emerged, and he had to clamp down on his instinctive comment. Sod it. “Should you be doing that,” Morse said, “with your cough?”

 

Thursday looked at the pipe as though only just realising he was smoking it. He took another puff, then, “Probably not.” He sighed ruefully, and put it out.  “Come on then.”

 

They got into the car – “I’ll drive, Morse” – but Thursday made no move to start the engine. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, and looked in the side mirror.

 

“Sir?”

 

“For a while now, Morse, it hasn’t mattered if I smoked,” Thursday began slowly. The words filtered through Morse’s brain, followed by an acute rush of understanding. A wave of nauseous dread swept over him, and he turned to stare blankly out of the windscreen. “Couldn’t make it worse, as it were.”

 

Morse licked dry lips, and tried to get some moisture back in his throat. His vision seemed hazy, and he blinked several times until it cleared. “Sir, I-“

 

“But, right before I found you at the bank, I coughed up the piece of bullet that was rattling around in my lungs. I’ve kept it, as a souvenir.” Thursday gave a short huff of a laugh. “Anyway, I went to see the doctor yesterday afternoon. Should have gone sooner,” he said before Morse could, “but with Joan it was… Anyway. The doctor agrees with you. Says that I shouldn’t smoke, at least for a bit.” A hand landed gently on Morse’s arm, and he reluctantly dragged his eyes across to make contact. “He thinks I’ll be alright, now. It just needs a bit of time.”

 

“Sir. You thought-” Morse choked out.

 

“It doesn’t matter what I thought.” Thursday drew his hand away, and a moment later started the car. “And don’t harp on about the pipe, I get enough of that at home.” But his tone was gentle, and Morse didn’t think he had minded.

 

They stopped for a pint at a pub on the way. Lunch was a ham and tomato sandwich for Thursday – who gave Morse his usual, long-suffering look when he guessed right, and a chewed pen top and a crossword for Morse.

 

Back at the station, Bright called Thursday into his office and Morse went to look through the evidence. He took the envelope from the dead man’s pocket – they’d already dusted it for prints and found nothing – and turned it over and over in his fingers. Why an empty envelope? What had been inside? Something which Mr Rushford had given to his attacker? He must have removed it first, or the murderer would have taken the envelope too.

 

The phone rang before Thursday came back. “Morse.”

 

It was a report of a robbery at Chaucer college. Morse might have sent a PC along to take the details, except that he recognised the name. “Jack Thomas,” he mused to himself, one of the boys from the morning.

 

He paused by Bright’s office for a moment on his way out, and through the slats of the blinds he could see the two men leaning in towards each other as they talked. He could just make out that their voices were raised in argument, and couldn’t help but feel he was probably the topic of conversation.

 

* * *

 

The Dean met him at the gate. “I didn’t like to call the police in,” he said by way of greeting. “I mean, we usually get a few incidents of petty theft each year, but the boy insisted.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yes, well, you’ll see.”

 

When he glanced through the door, the room was mostly undisturbed, though it looked like the desk had been rummaged through. Not professionally so, in Morse’s opinion, and perhaps it could be entirely explained by the habits of the owner.

 

 Jack was waiting outside the door, and seemed surprised but not displeased to see Morse again. “It was like this when I came back from lunch,” he explained. “I don’t really keep anything valuable here, though.”

 

Morse went in and had a cursory look around. Jack followed him in, picking up a jacket which had been knocked off the back of a chair – the same one he’d been wearing this morning, Morse noted. “Can you tell me what’s missing?”

 

Jack shrugged sheepishly. “It’s a bit hard to tell, to be honest, but my desk wasn’t like this when I left it. My gold watch, which was in my desk drawer. All my coursework’s still here, and my books and cello.” Jack hesitated, and then, “The thing is, a few of my letters are missing; they were out on the desk. It wouldn’t matter, but one of them was from my mother, the last she sent before… before she passed away.”

 

Morse looked up, interested. “Do you have any idea what someone would want with them?”

 

“No,” said Jack with something approaching exasperation. “They aren’t anything interesting, just stuff from home. I’d say someone was playing a mean trick, but then I’ve no idea why they’d steal my watch.”

 

“Is there anyone here that you think would play a trick like that on you?” The boy shook his head. “Who were you sitting with, at lunch?” Jack listed off a bunch of names, including Neil, from the morning, and a David. “David,” Morse asked, attention caught, though it was a common enough name.

 

“Yes, David… something beginning with an R, I think– sorry, he’s more Neil’s friend than mine. He was very quiet, I barely noticed he was there.”

 

Morse was rather surprised that David had been there at all, if it was the same boy, being as how he’d only found out that morning that his father had died. He would have had to come straight back to college after the morgue. Perhaps he couldn’t handle dealing with his mother and sister yet. Still.

 

“I’d like to talk to the other two from this morning again. Where might I find them?” Jack told him they’d probably be on the quad or in the library. As Morse moved to leave, a thought struck him and he paused. “Your cello? Did you happen to be playing in a concert yesterday?” Jack nodded, surprised. “With David?” Another nod. “What time did it finish?”

 

“Oh, around ten I think? I stayed for drinks after, so I’m afraid I wasn’t keeping track of the time.”

 

“Did David stay for drinks?”

 

“No, I don’t think so. I didn’t see him.”

 

“Do you know if any of David’s family were there? His father?”

 

“I don’t know. I don’t know his family. Wait, I tell a lie, I’ve seen think I’ve seen a girl who must have been his sister a couple of times before.” Morse thanked him absently, and left.

 

Neil and Catherine were studying in the library. Morse watched them for a moment before they knew they were observed. Catherine had angled her whole body towards Neil and was twisting her red hair around her finger coyly. And he wasn’t even pretending to study, slouching back in his chair and revelling in her attention.

 

They straightened themselves up as soon as they saw him approaching, and were all earnest helpfulness.

 

“You two know a David Rushford, here at the college, is that correct?” They exchanged a surprised glance, and then both nodded. “What I’m about to share with you is part of a confidential police investigation.” He waited for them to nod again. “It was David’s father that you found this morning. Did you not recognise him?”

 

“His  _father_?” hissed Catherine, seeming horrified. “Does he know? We were just with him, he didn’t say anything!”

 

And, “No, we’ve never met his parents,” said Neil. “I suppose they must have dropped him off once or twice, but we were never introduced. I got the feeling he didn’t like his father much though. Poor chap.”

 

“Did either of you see him last night?”

 

“Not after dinner,” Catherine said, and Neil agreed.

 

Morse considered them both. “Do you know anything about your friend Jack’s room being searched? It looks like a robbery.” Again, they both expressed surprise and dismay.

 

“We’d better go and see if we can help him with anything,” said Neil, and Catherine jumped up alongside him.

 

* * *

 

“And where have you been?” Thursday asked sharply, poking his head out of his office when he saw Morse was back.

 

“I had a report about a theft from one of the students that found the body this morning. Thought it was worth checking out.”

 

“Humph. Anything to it?”

 

“I’m not sure yet. Seems to be just a watch and some papers missing.” Something about it was nagging at Morse though. He couldn’t help but feel that it might be connected in some way. “The students who found the body this morning all know David Rushford, who was apparently back at College happily eating lunch with them not two hours after we told him about his father.”

 

That gave Thursday pause. “David, hmm? I went with Strange to check out this club that Mr Rushford was a member of; club in this case seems to be a euphemism for gambling, drinking and certain other entertainments, regardless of what business his family thought he dealt with there. And DeBryn called, the results of the autopsy won’t be ready until tomorrow. What else do we have?”

 

Morse dug out his notepad. “I was going to go to the location he’d marked on the map, have a look around?”

 

Thursday nodded. “Good. Strange is following up a lead with one of the other members of the club who was seen arguing with the victim on the day he died; sounds like the fellow might have been trying to blackmail Mr Rushford over some of his habits.”

 

Having turned over the details on the Chaucer robbery to a PC who would follow it up, Morse headed out towards the spot indicated on Rushford’s map. He took a copy of both the note and map with him.

 

The path wasn’t so bad now, a day of sunshine had dried out the mud, and the walk from the car was a pleasant one. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the birches, and the sun warmed him as he walked. Morse kept a sharp eye for anything out of place, but even so he nearly missed the slim partially buried book in the dried mud a few feet off the path. Morse carefully dug it out using a nearby stick, and checked the surrounding area for anything else.

 

Any footprints from the day before had been entirely obscured by the night’s rain, so Morse followed the path in the direction of the crime scene. After a hundred yards or so he found a dark blue scarf, caught in the low branches of a nearby tree. It was looking rather sorry for itself after exposure to the elements but Morse didn’t think that even in its original state it would have been a suitable accompaniment for Mr Rushford’s attire. It might have belonged to his attacker. Or it might have been there for days. He carefully detangled it from the twigs it was caught in, and folded it up.

 

It was about five minutes to where the body had been found at a slow-paced walk, and there were no further items of interest. Both the book and the scarf ought to have been found by the PCs canvassing the area that morning; even if they hadn’t known exactly where to look, as Morse had, they should have covered that far up the path. Morse made a mental note to mention it to Thursday.

 

At the car, he laid the scarf in the back seat and carefully brushed the mud off the book. It was leather-bound, and good quality. At first glance, it looked like an appointment or address book. When he cracked it open, most of the pages were stuck together. The few which it opened on which weren’t fused to each other showed that it was most likely a diary or journal, the writing indicative of a female hand. The pages were still damp, and the words blurry and hard to make out where they weren’t washed away entirely.

 

“The journal might have fallen in a struggle, or been thrown? And the scarf lost in a chase of some kind?” Morse suggested to Thursday and Strange back at the station.

 

“Well, at some point Martin Rushford moved from the location on his map to the place we found him,” Strange said. “It would make sense if he was running from something.”

 

“DeBryn did say at least one of the shots was from behind. Perhaps the victim turned after the first shot, rather than there being two shooters.” Thursday tried to look through the book, but got no further than Morse. “See if you can get any further with this then.”

 

“I thought I might visit the family again; I could ask while I was there.”

 

Thursday considered for a moment. “Alright, but tread carefully there Morse. It would be a bad time for Bright to take umbrage at the way you were handling witnesses.” The irony of the words struck both of them hard, and Morse couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh or cry.

 

“Yes, sir,” he said simply, and headed out.

 

It was almost five o’ clock when he arrived at the Rushford’s, and all the family were at home. Aside from slightly reddened eyes, Mrs Rushford showed no further signs of her earlier distress. The daughter, Julia, was in floods of tears, however. Morse wondered if she’d only just been told. He couldn’t see much of her, half hidden behind her brother as she was, but she seemed to take after him – tall, thin and dark haired. She must have been about fifteen.

 

“I’m sorry to disturb you all again, I just have a few follow up questions.” He asked a few general questions about Martin’s acquaintances, then, “We’re trying to trace Mr Rushford’s movements after he was at the concert last night. Neither of you attended the concert?”

 

“No, I was at a dinner party until late. And Julia was at a friend’s, weren’t you, darling?”

 

“She thinks my music’s boring,” David said blandly. Julia gave a watery laugh and poked him in the side. Getting a better look at her face, Morse revised his estimate of her age downwards.

 

“We think he may have stayed near the campus after the concert. But you said you didn’t see him afterwards?” This to David, who shook his head. “What did you do once the concert was over? That might help us rule out where he wasn’t.”

 

“I went back to my room, I walked right across the quad. I didn’t see him, but it was dark…”

 

“Alright. And, this is just routine, can anyone verify that that’s where you were?” David seemed surprised by the question, and shook his head. Mrs Rushford stiffened, and drew herself up in readiness to defend her family. Morse drew out the journal, hoping to head her off. “Do any of you recognise this?”

 

“I have an address book just like it,” said Mrs Rushford after a moment. “We order that style for all of our stationary. May I?”

 

Morse handed her the diary. “Do you recognize the handwriting?”  
  
“It’s hard to tell, this is barely legible. Julia, is this yours?” Her daughter had been sitting very quietly, watching with sharp eyes, but now moved next to her mother and took the book. She flipped through the few pages it opened on.

 

“No, sorry, I don’t think so,” she said. “Why?”

 

“It’s of interest in the investigation,” Morse said, keeping his answer deliberately vague. “We’re very interested in finding the owner.”

 

“Well, I don’t think you’ll have much luck reading it, you might as well throw it away,” she said blithely. Morse eyed her carefully, and held out a hand for the book.

 

“It’s police evidence for the moment.” It might have been his imagination, but he thought she seemed reluctant to hand it over. “Mrs Rushford, might I speak to you alone for a moment?”  

 

They moved through to the drawing room. “I’m sorry to have to ask this, but - you didn’t seem surprised that your husband wasn’t home last night?”

 

She held her head high, but there was weariness in her pose. “Sometimes my husband’s business kept him from home.” Looking at her face, Morse guessed she had strongly suspected an affair.

 

“I see. It wasn’t unusual?”

 

“No.” Her tone was final. He thanked her, and left with the fairly solid suspicion that the book recovered near Martin Rushford’s body was his daughter’s diary.

 

Trying to gently separate the pages with a letter opener didn’t get him very far – there was too much mud along the edges. Instead, Morse appropriated the small electric kettle used to make what passed for tea or coffee at the station, and plugged it into the socket usually reserved for his desk lamp.

 

After about an hour, Thursday came out to view his progress. “How’s it going with that?”

 

“It’s working,” Morse said, not taking his eyes off the pages he was holding over the steam from the kettle. “Just very slowly.  I’m worried the steam might be making the lettering even worse, though. You can make out the writing on some of the pages, but on most the ink is too run or faded. I should be done in twenty minutes or so. From her reaction when I asked about it, I’m pretty sure it’s either Miss Rushford’s or she knows whose it is.”

 

“So why was it near the scene? If it  _is_ hers, it’s a bit of a coincidence.” Thursday paused a moment, as Morse continued to steam without comment. “I’m off home then. It’s already almost seven, Morse, you should do the same.”

 

Morse absently agreed, and then looked up at Thursday’s worried face. “No news?” he asked cautiously. Thursday shook his head. “I’m sure that means she’s safe with a friend, sir. She’d have come back, otherwise.”

 

“Maybe. I thought about ringing around all her old school friends, especially the ones that moved away. Just to know she’s safe.”

 

Morse put the book down, and gave his full attention to Thursday. “Why haven’t you, sir?”

 

In the dimming light, Thursday looked very old for a moment. Lines stood out in stark relief on his face, and there seemed to be more silver in his hair. “I don’t understand it. Why she doesn’t want to be with us, at a time like this.” He looked at Morse piercingly. “You do, though?”

 

“No, sir,” Morse said honestly. But, then, “Maybe.” He ducked his head slightly, and thought of his own instincts when he was hurting. “I can understand wanting to be alone, when things go wrong,” he added, feeling as though the rawness in his voice gave away more than he would have liked. He could feel Thursday’s gaze on the top of his head.

 

“Well. If she needed that much to get away - I don’t want to drive her off further.” Morse looked up as Thursday shrugged into his coat, and patted down his pockets. “I haven’t mentioned it to Win, though I’m sure she’s thought of it too. I’ll give it another couple of days.”

 

Morse nodded, hoping despite his own misgivings that another couple of days were all it would need. “Good night then, sir. My best to Mrs Thursday.”

 

Once the book was fully teased apart, Morse plugged his lamp back in and set about trying to decipher it. He got about a third of the way through with no confirmation that it even belonged to Julia, and nothing legible other than isolated words and the few couple of sentences about grievances with friends. Sighing, he decided to give up and go home after all.

 

* * *

 

One of the less pleasant things about living in a basement flat was that it tended to get damp, and Morse couldn’t really afford to put the heating on for long. Worry gnawed at his stomach again over his financial situation; even cutting back almost entirely on his vices this month hadn’t saved him what he needed to send to his family, and that had been before the bank started making threats about ‘consequences.’

 

He put a record on – Puccini – and tried to lose himself in the music. His muscles gradually unwound, and the headache he hadn’t even noticed pounding at his temples faded away. But, for all that he was in his own room that night, it was less restful than the previous one at the Thursday’s. He woke every hour or two in a cold sweat, with visions of Matthews pulling the trigger. He’d heard that people always woke up before they died, in dreams, but he stayed trapped in the nightmare for longer; feeling the impact, falling to the floor, dying like Gidderton had. The worst times were when it wasn’t him that died, but Joan, and he watched the light in her eyes fade as her blood flowed in a river across the pavement.

 

Eventually he gave up, dragging himself from his thin mattress and sitting at the table with his head in his hands. He tried to picture Joan’s smiling face, but all he could conjure was a scared one, and the feeling of the gun as it had whipped across his face. He contemplated the thin sliver of liquor in the last bottle in the cupboard, then thought of Thursday’s disapproving face and left it.

 

* * *

 

As the sun rose he jammed a hasty piece of toast in his mouth and headed for the station. Thursday was in a black mood when Morse knocked on the door, and Morse thought he heard weeping from inside as he stepped out and smartly closed the door behind him. The DI was slightly dishevelled, as though he hadn’t had the normal time to prepare for the day, and looked as though he’d gotten about as much sleep as Morse.

 

“I’ve called Win’s sister, she’ll be here in an hour,” Thursday said to Morse’s silent enquiry as they got into the car, not looking at him. Morse started the engine, and Thursday leaned his head on his hand, elbow propped against the window. “She wouldn’t stop crying all night,” he added wearily. “I think it’s sunk in that Joan might not be coming back anytime soon.”

 

Morse picked up the diary again as soon they get in, but didn’t manage more than a couple of pages before they got a call from DeBryn. Strange drove, so Morse was in the back seat; it felt awkward trying to carry on a conversation with the two in front so he didn’t try. Instead he closed his eyes and tried to imagine what might take a respectable, wealthy man out by the river late at night. Blackmail, as Strange had suggested? Perhaps the diary didn’t belong to his daughter, but to someone he was having an affair with? Strange was saying something about his lead being promising; that Martin Rushford’s infidelities were well known at the club. Certainly a reason to meet, though the motive for murder would seem more on Rushford’s side, but something about it seemed off. And why had Martin Rushford left the map and note in his office when he went for the meeting?

 

“Why did Rushford leave the map in his study?” Morse blurted aloud, as the point struck home.  Thursday and Strange stopped talking, and Thursday half-turned in his seat. “If all he had was map coordinates, why didn’t he take the map with him so that he could actually find the place?”

 

“Maybe he didn’t need it?” offered Strange after a moment.

 

“That seems unlikely. He’d hardly know a random spot someone gave him co-ordinates for well enough to… Unless… Unless he was the one to set the meeting. He knew the place, and marked the map to  _get_ the coordinates. Coordinates aren’t exact anyway, sir, they cover a square; you could hardly find a specific spot by them unless you were given some other direction. ‘By the big tree,’ or ‘next to the bend in the river.’ Martin Rushford looked up the coordinates, then he wrote them down so that he could tell the  _other_ person!”

 

“Not a bad bit of reasoning, but hardly conclusive,” said Thursday sceptically. “Right, here we are, let’s see what DeBryn has for us.”

 

Thankfully, Martin Rushford looked more like a wax model than a bleeding corpse this time around, and it was easier for Morse to look at him without the threat of losing his breakfast.

 

“Well, I don’t have much that’s new for you, gentlemen. He was shot with .38 S&W bullets-“

 

“Same weapon?” interrupted Thursday.

 

“-likely all fired from the same weapon,” DeBryn continued with a hint of reproach. “Three of the bullets were still lodged in the body, and the other was found at the scene. These three, here, here and here-“ the pathologist pointed out puckered, red, holes in the shoulder, side and gut, “would not have been instantly fatal. It’s entirely possible he would still have been standing after them, especially if they were made closely after each other. The shot to his shoulder was made from behind, the others from the front. Given the close range involved, it would seem the shooter was not skilled,” he added dryly. “The final shot was near the heart, and severed an artery – that would be the official cause of death. That shot was angled down; if I were to take a guess I’d say likely because he doubled over after the gut shot.”  

 

“Sounds like the murderer panicked,” said Thursday thoughtfully. “Four shots had more risk of being heard. But we’ve no sign of the murder weapon. Have they finished dredging the river nearby?”

 

“Yes, sir. Nothing,” said Strange.

 

“Then he must have taken it with him.”

 

* * *

 

There was a message waiting for Morse back at the station – two more robberies reported at Chaucer College by Neil and David. More than a coincidence, Morse thought, and this time Thursday agreed with him, especially with David involved. Morse and Strange headed to the college, and took the boy’s statements. Neil had reported to the Dean that his room had been gone through when he got back from breakfast, and David an hour or so later.

 

“They’ve taken my best pen, and my gold cufflinks,” Neil said. “And everything in my desk and folders has been tossed around! I’ll never be able to put my essays back in order in time to give them to my tutor tomorrow! My father will be so angry with me!”

 

David, however, was very quiet when they questioned him in his room. Eventually, reluctantly, he said, “My father’s revolver is missing.” Morse and Strange exchanged a look.

 

“What sort of gun is it?” asked Strange.

 

“It’s a Smith and Wesson, from the war. I kept it in a case, under the bed. It’s not something I’d ever use, but he gave it to me for my Eighteenth, you see.”

 

“When did you last see it?”

 

“Lord, months ago I suppose, when I last moved rooms. I wouldn’t have looked now, except that the others were talking about people breaking into their rooms and I got worried; thought I’d check everything.”

 

“So you’ve no idea how long it’s been missing, and nothing else in the room has been touched?” Morse checked. David shook his head. “Who else knew it was here?”

 

“I might have said something about it at the pub one night; I don’t remember. And my family, I suppose. Actually I was wrong before – I got it out a few weeks ago, when my sister was here; she’d never seen it.“

 

Morse considered whether it was worth pushing David; telling him that the gun matched the type of bullets used to kill his father. Strange shook his head slightly, and they left.

   

“I think the theft of the gun is a separate matter to the other rooms being gone through,” said Morse as they walked back to the car. “I think the gun went missing earlier.”

 

“Think it’s the murder weapon, do you? What do you think to David being our man? He might just be pretending the gun was stolen.”

 

“One of the other students did say he didn’t get on with his father,” Morse said thoughtfully. “And he has no alibi. But where’s his motive to kill his father now? And, I don’t know, he doesn’t strike me as a killer.”

 

“It’s always the quiet ones, Morse,” said Strange with a wink. “Let’s see what we can dig up on him.”

 

* * *

 

The afternoon passed quickly, with few items of interest. Morse combed through the information that Strange had gathered about the Aries club. The argument had been with a Mr T Long, concerning a sum of unpaid money. Mr Long had apparently threatened to disclose certain details to Mr Rushford’s wife. It followed another argument the previous week, identical in nature, and had been heard by half of the members. There were few details on the club’s dealings – on paper it was all very above board and proper sounding. A list of Mr Rushford’s known associates at the club – Morse noted with interest a Mr Patrick Fitzwilliam was a member there. He quickly flicked through his notepad – Neil’s surname was Fitzwilliam. Some relation?

 

The phone rang, distracting him from his train of thought. He glanced at the clock – it was just past four. “Morse.”

 

“Morse?” Oh, and that wasn’t a voice he had been expecting to hear. His hand gripped the receiver tightly, and he listened to the shaky breathing of the person on the other end.

 

“Joan?” His voice cracked embarrassingly. “Are you alright? Where are you?”

 

“I’m – Morse I’m fine.” But her voice sounded tearful. “I’m just calling to let you know. I found somewhere, and I’m alright. How are… how are mum and dad?”

 

Morse let out a harsh bark of laughter. “You mum cried all last night. And your dad – he’s trying to be reasonable, but he’s really cut up about it.  They’re both waiting for you to come home. They-” and here Morse swallowed, and thought about saying  _we_ , “-want you to come home. Very much.”

 

“I can’t, Morse. I can’t. I don’t know – look, I just wanted you to be able to tell them that I’m alright. I have to go.”

 

“Wait,” said Morse, frenzied, “do you need anything?”

 

“No, Morse, I have to-“

 

“I’m getting your dad, just hold on one minute, just for him to hear your voice!”

 

“I-“

 

Morse dropped the receiver on the table and sprinted for Thursday’s office, barging in without knocking and panting “Phone, now, Joan.” He didn’t need to say any more, Thursday was off like a shot, practically knocking him over in the doorway. He righted himself, and turned back the way he’d come.

 

It wasn’t what he’d hoped. At Morse’s desk Thursday was lowering the receiver from his ear in what seemed like slow motion, and by the time Morse reached him he stood cradling it despondently in his hands.

 

She hadn’t waited, then. Not even for a minute, just so that her father could hear for himself that she was alright. Morse had to turn his face away for a moment; suddenly blindingly angry with her but not wanting Thursday to see.

 

“What did she say?” Thursday eventually asked, voice bleak. Morse sat down the desk again, and gently took the phone back from his hand, hanging it up.

 

“She wanted to let you know she was alright, and that she’d found somewhere to stay. She asked how you were. That’s when I came to get you.” Morse suddenly, guiltily, felt that he should have done so sooner; perhaps she’d been using a pay phone, and didn’t have enough change to keep talking.

 

“And she called you, did she?” Thursday sounded somewhere between disbelieving and wounded.

 

“I told her she could, if she needed anything. Maybe she was afraid to speak to you.”

 

“Afraid?” Thursday’s voice echoed loudly through the office, and his eyes flashed furiously at Morse. “Why would my own daughter be afraid of me?”

 

“I just meant that she probably feels guilty, and she’d find it hard to speak to you, that’s all,” Morse said quietly. After he’d left home, he felt similarly every time he talked to his sister – he’d dreaded it. For all that she said she was happy for him, he knew she felt abandoned.

 

Thursday glared at him for a long moment, then he sagged and leaned heavily against the desk. “At least we knew she’s alright, or that she says she is. Any chance of a trace on-“ He looked down at the phone for a moment, then jerked his head. “Never mind. Never mind.” Morse waited for a moment, but Thursday seemed lost in his thoughts. 

 

“Morse,” Bright said, from the door to his office. “Have you got a moment?”

 

“Actually, sir, I was-“ Morse looked at Thursday’s absent expression.  “Yes, sir.”

 

Bright shut the office door behind him, and gestured for him to take a seat. Once Morse had done so, the CS paced up and down the office a couple of times before moving behind his desk and taking a seat himself. Bright looked tired, Morse thought.

 

“I find myself in a difficult position,” Bright said, “but I feel the only right thing for you to do is for you to make the decision.”

 

“Sir?” Morse asked, dry mouthed.

 

“We discussed a couple of days ago, Morse, where you might go now that you are a Detective Sergeant.” He looked at Morse for confirmation, and Morse nodded. “Well, both of the options that I previously mentioned still stand. Either would be lucky to have you, and you could visit early next week to see if you were a good fit. But another option has occurred.” Here Bright paused, and looked significantly at Morse. “Soon after your promotion was confirmed, DS Strange came to talk to me. He would be very interested in a position in London, as he feels it would progress his career. He said he wouldn’t ever have wanted to leave us while there wasn’t another sergeant here, but now that you’re qualified… that is, if you wanted to stay, and he wanted to go…” Bright trailed off, and looked down at his fingers laced together on the desk.

 

A wild rush of emotions crashed through Morse’s mind, and he reached up to rub absently at his chest as though to ease the pressure there. “Are you saying – saying that I could stay here, at Cowley? If I wanted?”

 

“Yes, if you wanted.” Bright looked back up at him, and his eyes were compassionate. “I know things aren’t easy between you and Detective Inspector Thursday at the moment, so if you wanted a fresh start, then I would understand.”

 

 And the tightness in Morse’s chest constricted a little further, as he remembered seeing the two of them arguing the day before. “You, you talked to him?” Morse asked quietly. He had to force himself to go on. “If Inspector Thursday doesn’t recommend that I stay here, sir, then-“

 

“Oh no, no, he wants you to stay. He  _thinks_  that you should leave, that it would be better for you, that you should have the opportunity. But he wants you to stay.” Bright’s voice was earnest, and Morse wanted to believe him.  It was only a day ago that he himself had been thinking perhaps it would be better if he did leave, but now that the option to stay was here, God, he wanted it.

 

“I – could I think about it, sir?” he asked, and was ashamed to find his voice unsteady. “And talk it over with Detective Thursday?”

 

Bright looked at him with a vaguely paternal air. “Alright Morse, but I’ll need your answer by Monday morning.” And it was Friday today.

 

“Thank you, sir. I mean - thank you.” Morse backed out of the office; feeling like his head would barely stay on his shoulders. He could  _stay._

* * *

At his desk he found a note saying that a Miss Catherine Radley had called, wanting to speak to him. He tried to call back, but couldn’t get hold of her. As the message had been labelled urgent, he set off for Chaucer once more.

 

Neither Jack nor Neil had seen her since lunch, “Though we’re all supposed to be having drinks in a couple of hours, I could tell her you were looking for her?” added Neil.

 

“Thank you. Oh, and one more thing, are you any relation to a Patrick Ftizwilliam?”

 

“Mr father,” said Neil, puzzled.

 

“Your father is a member of the Aries club, is that right? I was wondering if he knew David’s father?” Neil shrugged, and said that he had no idea – his father had never mentioned it.

 

Morse asked around the list of other friends they provided, but no one knew where Catherine was. While he was talking to David, remembered Strange’s suggestion earlier and asked, “How often did you usually see your father?”

 

“Barely at all, since I’ve been here. And not that much more than that while I was living at home. Even when he was there he was always in his study, and not to be disturbed. Mostly I felt sorry for Julia, especially since I’ve been here. I think she gets lonely.”

 

“You said she was here a few weeks ago?”

 

“Yes, she comes around sometimes at the weekend, if I don’t go home. She was here last weekend too. Mother gets a bit, well, a bit much sometimes.”

 

“Did she ever go walking along by the river?” David didn’t know. “How did your parents get on?”

 

“Well enough I suppose. Occasional cold war, but they mostly kept us out of it.”

 

“Do you know why?” David shrugged. “Do you know much about this club that your father was a member of – the Aries club?”

 

David’s face twisted in poorly concealed disgust. “No. Not much,” he amended after a moment. “He took me along once. It was him and a bunch of his cronies getting pissed, smoking cigars and being totally up themselves. They said some things. With all the tarts they had parading around…”

 

“When was that?”

 

“About a year ago. ‘You’re a man now,’ that’s what he told me. And him so bloody fussy about being ‘proper’ the rest of the time.” David snorted. “Sorry, I know I shouldn’t speak ill of him.”

 

“I asked. Thank you for being honest. Did you know Neil’s father was a member too?”

 

David frowned. “Yeah, dad had mentioned it. He was pleased we were friends.”

 

\------

 

Morse took the diary home with him, and poured over it until late into the night – writing down every word he could make out. None of it was useful. If Martin Rushford or the killer had been carrying it then presumably it contained something important. Why would one of them be carrying around a girl’s journal?

 

His sleep was restless again; this time he awoke gasping for breath with the image of Thursday’s blood stained lips burned onto the back of his eyelids. He settled back against his thin pillow, and tried to slow his breathing. It had felt so real – the inspector bent double in agony as he coughed up bullet after bullet and blood streamed from his mouth. The image wouldn’t go away, and Morse gagged, saliva filling his mouth, and swallowed desperately. After a minute he hauled himself out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, cupping cold water in his palms and rinsing his mouth with it. It chased a little of the dream away, but not all of it, and despite it being only three in the morning Morse dismissed the idea of sleeping further. He spent half an hour kneeling in front of his bookshelf, running his fingers over the spines of old friends again and again, and allowing his mind to drift into their worlds, before finally selecting a volume and sprawling in the stiff armchair with it.

 

* * *

 

After picking up Inspector Thursday in the morning – “What happened to the weekend, hmmm, why can’t more murders happen on Mondays?” - Morse gave Dr DeBryn a call and asked if he could avail himself of some of the pathologist’s supplies. He was about to head out when there was a call from Chaucer College. It was Jack.

 

“Cathy didn’t show up for drinks last night, and no-one’s seen her since yesterday lunch,” he said. “We checked her rooms. Maybe it’s nothing, but Neil was worried last night, and David said I should let you know.”

 

Morse thanked him, and headed for the hospital and DeBryn’s lab.

 

“Morse. What can I help you with on this fine Saturday morning?” DeBryn was still on his morning cup of tea, the warmth of it steaming up his glasses as he took a sip. It was always cold in the morgue and his accompanying office, which explained why the doctor always wore so many layers.

 

“I was wondering if I could have a rummage through your chemical cupboard. I’m after some ammonium or potassium hydroxide.”

 

“Nasty stuff. Certainly I’ll have ammonium hydroxide. What do you want it for?”

 

Morse held up the journal, and opened it to show a random page. “I’m trying to bring up some faded writing. I remember reading that ammonium hydroxide would bind to the iron in the ink, even if the surface layer had been washed away.”

 

DeBryn made a thoughtful noise. “Let me set you up in a corner. You’re lucky, I don’t have any customers yet today, so you won’t have to share the space.” He smiled easily at Morse. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be in for – I’m on call but I’m really only here to finish up a few things unless a body comes in.”

 

It took Morse half the morning, patiently applying the solution to page after page while the fumes made his eyes water, but he finally found something interesting. He’d started with the most recent pages, working on the premise that they were the most likely to be relevant. Scattered words were revealed which began to paint a picture, but Morse finally hit upon the sentences ‘he makes my heart beat like a drum. I can’t wait to kiss him again,’ and, ‘David says he’s a bad sort, but then big brothers are supposed to be protective. At least he doesn’t know-‘

 

Taken together, they confirmed in his mind that the diary belonged to Julia, and that there was a boyfriend in the picture. Someone that David might have known about, although the diary didn’t mention a name that he could see. And if either her father or his killer were carrying this on the night that he was killed…

 

Morse stood hurriedly, diary in hand, and draped his coat over his arm. This was something, he could feel it!

 

“Morse, you should take another break, too much inhalation of – oh, hello, have you got something?” DeBryn came over and peered at the page which Morse showed him. “Yes, excellent work. Well, I’m happy to have lent you my space.” His eyes traced over the mess Morse had left on the bench. Morse flushed, realising he’d been about to leave without a second though, and placed the journal and coat down again before beginning to tidy his workspace.

 

A hand appeared from the side and rescued a bottle which he would have knocked over in his haste. “I’ll finish here,” DeBryn said drolly, “You look like you’re in a hurry.” Morse hesitated, torn between leaving someone else with his mess and pressing on with the case. “Just this once, mind,” DeBryn added, “and you’ll buy me a pint after.”

 

“Thank you!” Morse took up his coat again, and gave the pathologist a quick, grateful smile before leaving.

 

The drive back from the Radcliffe felt interminable, but he was soon briskly knocking on Thursday’s office. He told Thursday of his discovery, and some of his suspicions, and they set off for the family home.

 

Mrs Rushford welcomed them, and said that her daughter out at the moment, but should be back in a few minutes.

 

“Would you be able to tell us if Julia is seeing anybody? Does she have a boyfriend?” Mrs Rushford looked shocked.

 

“No, certainly not; she’s only thirteen! Martin and I would never have allowed it. And she goes to an all girls’ school. She doesn’t know any boys.”

 

An idea solidified in Morse’s mind, and he practically vibrated in his seat with the need to confirm it.

 

The front door slammed, and there was the sound of quick footsteps starting up the stairs. “Julia,” called Mrs Rushford, and they heard the steps come to a halt.

 

“Yes?” she called.

 

Mrs Rushford gave a polite, well-bred huff which nonetheless managed to convey ‘teenagers!’ “Could you come here, please, darling?”

 

“What is it, Mummy, I need to-“ Julia came to an abrupt halt just inside the door when she saw the two police officers. Morse attempted a reassuring smile. “What’s going on? Is this about Daddy?”

 

Thursday and Morse rose to their feet.  “The diary I showed you before, Miss Rushford, I believe it’s yours. We’ve managed to restore the writing.” Morse held up the diary, and watched her eyes go wide with panic.

 

“That’s mine! You can’t read it, it’s private!”

 

“We didn’t know it was yours until we read it,” said Morse reasonably. “Especially since you told us it wasn’t. And, as I told you, it’s evidence in our investigation. Tell me, who is it that you talk about in this diary?”

 

“No-one!” Morse opened the diary to the relevant page, and began to read. “It was a dream,” she interrupted him desperately. “A fantasy. That’s all.” She was bright red now.

 

“I don’t think it was, Miss Rushford. And neither did your father, did he? This was found near his body – I think he went to confront the person you wrote about in your diary.” Thursday was watching him quietly, giving him his head with this line of inquiry.

 

“No,” she sobbed.

 

“Do you recognize this scarf, Miss Rushford?” He drew the blue scarf he’d found near the crime scene out of an evidence bag. She flinched back as he unfolded it. “Does it belong to Neil Fitzwilliam?”

 

“No,” she croaked.

 

“You met him through your brother, when you went to visit him at Chaucer, didn’t you? I’m sure he was very nice to you, treated you as though you were a grown up, not like everyone else does,” Morse’s voice gathered speed as she turned white and her mother gave a shocked exclamation. “Maybe at one point you even boasted to him about the revolver your brother has, and that he let you see it.“

 

She had broken down into wretched sobs now, and pulled away from her mother when the woman went to comfort her.

 

“Miss Rushford, it’s very important that you be honest with us,” said Thursday gently. “Were you in a relationship with your brother’s friend, Neil?” Still weeping, this time she nodded, and finally leaned into her mother. “Thank you, Miss Rushford, Mrs Rushford. We’ll be in touch shortly.” He gestured towards the door, and Morse got up to leave.

 

“Do you think it went further than kissing?” Thursday said as they walked down the driveway.

 

“Oh, I’m pretty sure,” replied Morse gravely. “I didn’t get on as well with the following pages, but there’s the odd word… And that would certainly explain why her father was so keen to chase down the bloke involved.”

 

“Let’s go and talk to this Neil, then,” Thursday said, and there was a look on his face like thunder.

 

They got a call on the radio on their way to the college – a body had been found drowned in the river some way downstream. “Catherine,” said Morse with surety once they heard it was that of a young woman. “I wonder how she was mixed up in this. I think she was in love with Neil, he must have got her to help him in some way; something to do with searching the rooms....”

 

“We’ll find out once we collar the bastard.”

 

Morse thought there was a more than even chance Neil would be long gone by the time they got to the college, but they found him sitting calmly in his tutor’s class. On seeing them both his eyes grew a little shifty, but when he came over to speak to them he still had the gumption to ask if it could wait until the end of the session.

 

Thursday growled. Before the DI could say anything, Morse interjected, “It’s about the robberies. We think that it might have been Miss Radley.”

 

“Cathy?” The boy affected shock, but the corner of his mouth twitched slightly in secretive amusement.

 

“Yes, she was the only one not with you when Jack’s room was rifled through. Do you know where she was when yours was ransacked?”

 

“Oh, no, I’m afraid I have no idea. But I can’t imagine Cathy would-“

 

“I think she definitely did,” said Morse confidently, “and now she’s done a runner. I was wondering – we’ve already checked Jack’s room, and found evidence that she left there. Is there any chance that we could have a quick look in yours for any sign that she’s been there.”

 

Neil paused for a second, likely weighing things in his head. On the one hand, they would undoubtedly find evidence that she’d been there, since she was probably in his rooms on a regular basis; and the thought that they suspected her of something obviously delighted him. On the other… It was this that caused him to pause, and that hesitation crystallised in Morse’s mind that there was incriminating evidence in his room. Until they found that, they couldn’t do him for more than sexual assault of a minor, and that only if Miss Rushford would speak to it. Strange was working on a warrant back at the station, but they didn’t want to give Neil a chance to get rid of any evidence he hadn’t already.

 

His smug pride apparently won the battle. “Of course. Just for a minute though, I really need to get back to class as soon as possible.”

 

“Thank you,” said Morse guilelessly. “We really wouldn’t trouble you if it wasn’t important.”

 

Once inside his room, Morse shed the pretence and went straight for the areas that hadn’t been ‘disturbed’ in what Morse was sure was a fake robbery to divert suspicion the other day. It was Thursday who found the gun, ignoring the boy’s increasingly angry demands for them to stop as he found it strapped in place under the bed frame. The DI moved to block the exit while Morse kept going, and found a tin hidden in the back of the wardrobe with nothing but a few creased and crinkled sheets of paper in it. They looked like they’d been through a good soaking at some point, but Morse could make out enough to confirm that it was a letter from Neil to Julia. The handwriting matched that on the envelope in Martin Rushford’s wastepaper bin; Mr Rushford must have opened it by mistake, due to the smudging of the address, prompting his investigation of her diary.

 

“You took this when you sent Jack off to fetch help, didn’t you? That’s why it was so important that it was you that ‘found’ the body – you realised what you’d left behind! Did you ask Cathy to keep watch while you looked at the body? Did she finally become suspicious? Is that why you killed her?”

 

Neil’s spitting red anger gradually faded during Morse’s speech, and now his face was pale. “It’s just a piece of paper,” he said, but his voice lacked its usual confidence.

 

“Oh, it’s quite simple to darken the ink again. We’ve already done it with Julia’s diary.” Neil froze. “And the gun Inspector Thursday found, the same one your friend David reported missing, will match the bullets we pulled from the body. I’m sure you enjoyed the irony, using the man’s own gun against him. Insurance was it, in case the gossip you’d heard from your father didn’t work as blackmail when he accused you of having sex with his thirteen year old daughter? And this -“ Morse brandished the letter, “- perhaps Jack will also remember finding it in his jacket after you found the body. You didn’t know what to do with it, did you – it would have stood out under your running gear. And then Jack came back with help and a jacket – it must have seemed a Godsend. I’m sure he flung the letter carelessly on his desk, and Cathy couldn’t work out which one it was. She stole his watch on impulse to cover up for the mess she made searching for it.”

 

Neil curled his lip “Not the brightest girl, that one.” Morse’s hands clenched into fists.

 

“Neil Fitzwilliam, you are under arrest for the murder of Martin Rushford, and the suspected murder of Catherine Radley.” Thursday cuffed him, and continued to read him his rights.

 

“Wait, this is a mistake! Call my father!”

 

Once he was safely in a cell, Thursday breathed out, and a little of the murderous rage in his eyes died down. “That bastard! Messing with a thirteen year old, and killing two people rather than own up to what he did.”

 

“We got him though, sir,” said Morse. “And before he could do anymore harm. After all, the last loose end was…”

 

“The girl,” said Thursday with sudden understanding. “You’d thought of that?”

 

“I sent a constable to stay with the family as soon as we left.”

 

“Well done. You’ve properly grown into your sergeant’s boots then, haven’t you?” Thursday said. He sounded proud, but also slightly sad.

 

Morse opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind; this wasn’t the place. “Pub?” he said.

 

“Alright, though I shan’t stay too long. I need to get back home.” Morse nodded understandingly.

 

Once they both had a pint – Morse had, for once, tried to buy a round, but Thursday had insisted – they found a table in the corner.

 

“Sir,” Morse started, then wasn’t sure how to go on. He played for time by taking a large mouthful of ale, and then ended up spending the next minute half-choking on it while Thursday tried to decide whether or not thumping him on the back would help. He gave a final cough, and straightened. “Sorry. I ah – I actually wanted to talk to you about something. Chief Superintendent Bright had another word with me earlier. About me leaving.”

 

“Oh, did he?” Morse darted a glance at Thursday, who was studying his glass with great intensity. “I imagine you’re excited to be moving on then. It’ll be good for you.”

 

Morse was briefly stymied.  “I’m not sure I am,” he said slowly. “Excited, that is. I mean, I never wanted to leave, sir – it never occurred to me about there not being space for more than one sergeant at the station.”

 

Thursday’s head came up, and he locked eyes with Morse. “Might be time for a change, lad. People stuck together too long, they can rub each other the wrong way. Familiarity breeds contempt, and all that.” Morse felt a bit like he was wading his way through this conversation, and every step threatened to get him stuck in a sinkhole. 

 

“I suppose I could understand that, sir. If someone was – not what the other person wanted.” Morse was thinking again of Thursday saying he needed to be willing to get his hands dirty. They’d gone back to an uneasy truce after the shooting, with so much else going on, but in the end if that was what Thursday wanted, then Morse wasn’t willing to do it. “Then there’d be no point in staying.”

 

Thursday stiffened, and a scowl carved its way across his face. “Well, I suppose so,” he said icily. “Like I said then, might be time for a change.”

 

“Right.” Morse took a long drink, then another. He’d been right. Thursday didn’t want him to stay; he didn’t know where Bright had got the idea. “Well, I guess next week I’ll be out of your way, and you won’t have to worry about my inconvenient ideas anymore,” he said darkly.

 

Thursday sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, lad, I didn’t mean to be bitter about it. I’m glad for you, if it’s what you want. You’ve earned it.”

 

“What I want.” Morse laughed hollowly, and downed the rest of his pint. He returned the glass to the table with a thud, and flattened his hands against the table. “It’s not what I want, but I certainly won’t stay where I’m not wanted.” Thursday’s look turned slightly puzzled, and Morse felt a twinge of irritation override his self-pity. “It’s not like you’ve made a secret of it,” he snapped.

 

Thursday visibly stopped himself from retorting, and seemed to think things over for a minute. “I got the impression you might be tired of being here. Of working with someone you couldn’t… couldn’t respect anymore,” Thursday said finally, and Morse could see it cost him to say it.

 

He was startled into honesty. “You said you didn’t want me as your bagman any more. That I wasn’t – because I wouldn’t…” Morse took a breath. “Because the ends  _don’t_ justify the means, not for me.”

 

“Morse.” They sat in silence for a minute, Morse watching Thursday tap his forefinger against the table. “I never should have said that to you. You’re one of the best coppers I know, and that you stick to your principles is – well, it’s rare, that’s what it is. The Force is full of corrupt police, and I  _hate it_. You looked at me like I was one of them, and that almost killed me. I just wanted to get something good done before I went, but that was the wrong way about it.”

 

Morse took a deep breath, and nodded. “I said that wasn’t you, sir,” he said quietly.

 

“Yes, you did, didn’t you? Believed in me even after I’d stopped believing in myself. That’s rare too.” Thursday took a deep breath. “Morse?”

 

“Sir?”

 

“Will you stay, Morse?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

 Thursday leaned back in his chair, looking relieved and satisfied. “Excellent. Suppose you come round for dinner tonight then? Win would be glad of it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Epilogue

 

Dinner was a very different affair than it had been a few days before. DI Thursday had gone into the kitchen for a quick word with his wife while Morse hung up his coat, and when she came out to meet him, wiping her hands on a tea towel, there was a smile on her face. Morse wasn’t prepared for her to wrap her arms around him in a hug and declare “I’m glad,” in a fierce whisper in his ear. He felt himself go bright red, and stuttered something indecipherable in return. She didn’t let go, and after a moment Morse lowered his hands, which had been raised in awkward surprise, to his side. A minute passed, and Morse felt tears prick his eyes for no reason. He closed them and swallowed, and tried to stand a little less rigidly.

 

“There,” she said, pulling away a moment later, as though it had been perfectly normal for her to hug her husband’s bagman for a couple of minutes. “I’ve got to get back to my cooking; Fred’ll take care of you.”

 

Morse looked up to find Thursday watching him, and swallowed hard again. “You alright, lad?” Not quite trusting his voice, Morse nodded and looked down at his feet. A moment later Thursday’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, and squeezed gently. “You know you’re always welcome here,” he said gruffly, and then, as though embarrassed by this much emotion, huffed and said he’d get them a drink.

 

Morse followed him into the kitchen, feeling strangely lost, and once Mrs Thursday spotted him she smiled again and asked if he wouldn’t mind stirring for a moment so that the sauce didn’t stick.

 

It reminded him of his childhood, being underfoot in the kitchen while his mother had cooked. She’d always been scolding him for making a mess, or for stealing a biscuit before they were cooled.

 

“What’s got you smiling?” Thursday asked, and Morse looked up to find both of them looking his way, paused in the middle of their own tasks. He hadn’t realised he had been, and blushed, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Win, pass me another glass, would you?”

 

“Be a dear and lay the table for me, please?” Mrs Thursday asked when she took over from Morse again. He wandered out to the dining room and contemplated the table. He was already digging through the sideboard before he realised it didn’t feel odd to do so – to rummage through the cupboards and find what was needed without asking where things were.

 

“Ah, I see you’ve found everything alright,” said Thursday from the doorway. “Cutlery’s in that drawer.” Morse set a stack of three plates down on the table, and stopped uncertainly. When he’d visited a few days ago, Mrs Thursday had laid a place for Joan, just in case. He drew another plate from the cupboard, and held it in front of him. He didn’t think there was much point to it, but he didn’t want to upset Mrs Thursday by not doing it either. Morse tipped the plate in his hands inquiringly towards Thursday, who was still standing there, and the DI shook his head. Decision made, Morse placed it carefully back into the cupboard and started setting the table.

 

Once they sat down to dinner Mrs Thursday told him all about the letter which had just arrived from Sam. He seemed happy enough, though apparently he was already complaining about the food. “I can see why, if this is what he’s used to,” said Morse sincerely, and Mrs Thursday laughed and flapped her hand at him.

 

“Take notes, Fred,” she said, “I expect compliments like this at every meal.”

 

She asked about the conversation he’d had with Joan, of course she did, and so he recited again what their daughter had said. It would have been a great deal easier, Morse thought a little sourly, if Joan would have said a little more. ‘I’m alright, I can’t stay’ got stale after a few repetitions. It seemed to comfort Mrs Thursday though, and she nodded and said, “I’m glad she called. She’s a good girl.”      

 

Afterwards they retired to the sitting room, and Thursday put the radio on – the news first, then some sort of comedy show Morse had never heard of. The warmth of dinner in his stomach and the glass of whisky Thursday had slipped into his hands made Morse reluctant to move, even though he was sure he must be outstaying his welcome. The Thursdays’ sofa was so comfortable, especially compared to his own furniture. The glass tipped slightly in his hands. He’d have to put it down before he spilled something. Perhaps in just a minute...

 

He was hazily aware of the shifting of weight next to him on the sofa, and the weight of the glass disappearing.

 

“Poor lamb,” he heard distantly, “you work him too hard, Fred.”

 

“It’s not my fault he won’t leave the office!” Morse was almost asleep, but the voice came again. “I don’t think he’s been sleeping well, after…”

 

“He looks so peaceful now. And such a nice lad.”

 

“Did I tell you he saved our Joan this week?”

 

Morse’s head fell to one side with a sharp drop and he jerked upright for a moment, blinking and half awake. A hazy look around found Thursday and his wife sitting on the loveseat opposite; Thursday with his arm around her. He looked up at Morse’s movement, and said “Everything’s alright here, lad, you’re fine.”

 

Morse mumbled something, and let his head fall back against the sofa. All of his limbs felt so heavy. His eyes slid closed again.

 

“He’s in a bit of trouble at the moment, trying to support his family back home.” Morse would have objected to that, had he felt willing or able to move. And he was sure he hadn’t said anything to Thursday about his family. “Says he’ll move somewhere cheaper, but he’s already in the dingiest basement flat I’ve ever seen. Still, it should be easier to sort now that his Sergeant’s has come through.”

 

Morse wondered how often they talked about him. He hadn’t even realised Mrs Thursday knew he would be leaving until she’d come out and hugged him, and said she was glad he wasn’t.

 

“Why not have him here for a bit? He could stay in Sam’s room? He needs a bit of care, that one; shouldn’t be on his own. Why’d you always call him Morse, anyway, the lad has a name, doesn’t he?”

 

Their voices faded out of Morse’s hearing, as he allowed himself to imagine staying here. It was impossible, of course; not just because of his career and accusations of favouritism, but because he wouldn’t be able to play his records late at night for fear of disturbing them, and he rather thought Mrs Thursday would expect him to be someone he wasn’t. Still though, it was a nice image, the thought of sitting down with them for every meal, helping in the kitchen, Mrs Thursday making him a sandwich every day for lunch.

 

He dropped fully into sleep with a slight smile on his face.

 

* * *

 

 

 Epilogue Part 2

 

“I hear you’re not to leave us for pastures new after all, Morse?” DeBryn said when Morse went to see the body from the river. It was indeed that of Catherine Radley, and Morse couldn’t decide if his feelings of irritation or empathy were stronger. She had been so blinded by love.

 

“Mmm? No. It looks like I’m staying after all. Maybe I’ll be stuck in Oxford forever,” Morse half-joked.

 

“Well, I for one am glad.” Morse looked up, surprised and pleased. “After all, things would be too quiet if you weren’t around. We’d go back to declaring things natural deaths, and suicides, and my days would become a good deal less interesting.” He offered Morse a wry smile, and Morse couldn’t help but return it.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Heavily implied sex with an underaged character
> 
> I suspect it's probably transparently obvious who the murderer is from the start; I hope it's a reasonable enough background for me to set everything else against though! 
> 
> Random: As the Oxford Colleges named in Morse and Endeavour are fictional, I’ve picked one of them, and for the purposes of the story we shall assume it is near the river.


End file.
